


Right Where You Want Me

by pullmydeviltrigger



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Car Sex, D/s elements, First Time, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal isn’t bad bad, M/M, Oneshot, PWP, Rimming, no beta we die like men, the barest hint of choking but not really, this fic is just a very long conversation interrupted by very vocal sex, unethical therapist behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pullmydeviltrigger/pseuds/pullmydeviltrigger
Summary: “I think I would certainly have some self-evaluation to do if this was what my subconscious has resorted to conjuring up for dream material.” They share small smiles, and there is a warmth flooding the car that wasn't there before.“Discussing your sexuality with me is more nightmarish than dreams of wendigos and murderers?” His smile is evident in his voice, and Will has the pathetic urge to bury himself in Hannibal, to nuzzle at him like a cat and be held and made whole, followed by the much stronger desire to punch himself in the face until unconsciousness finds him.“Certainly more discomforting.”“For fear or excitement?”~When Will has a panic attack at a crime scene, he and Hannibal's discussion about ways in which Will might relieve his anxiety takes a turn.





	Right Where You Want Me

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my ‘how graphically and unnecessarily detailed can I make my porn before my readers get bored of it?’ challenge! Honestly, I just wanted to write a somewhat light-hearted season1 divergent where things aren’t that bad and nothing is so bad that sexy times won’t fix it. My self-indulgent conversational smut awaits, please enjoy!

“You must find ways of grounding yourself in flashes of anxiety, Will.”

 

“Gee, Doctor, a stellar idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” Will rubbed at his temples in stress, his constant headache worse than usual. ‘I’m sorry, I’m…it’s just that things been kind of overwhelming for the last…couple days.” His voice became weaker, trailed off as he said it, and realised that it had been weeks, perhaps even months that he’s been this burned out for.

 

“Don’t apologise, I understand. I may be stating the obvious, but I have never seen you take part in any methods to help you achieve such a feeling.” His voice was as smooth as ever, like melted butter, and it grated on Will’s skin, for some reason.

 

He let out a snort before he answered, taming it to be as polite as he can manage. “Like what? Guided meditation and essential oils don’t really work on my particular brand of crazy.” He said, shaking his head slightly as he spoke, feeling his own irritation seep under his skin like branching roots.

 

“You are not crazy, Will, you put yourself in the middle traumatic experiences and force yourself to live through them. You likely wouldn’t need these sorts of techniques if you didn’t repetitively abuse your psyche in the way that you do.” Hannibal reiterated, the topic one of frequent occurrence between them. Will closed his eyes and willed away the cramping in his brain, the feeling like water was drowning his head and blocking his ears.

 

“I’m saving people’s lives.”

 

“At the small cost of your own stability and sanity.”

 

“So, you admit I’m crazy.” Will countered, not entirely serious in the first place, but unable to hold back a burst of laughter, unexpected and loudly bellowing into the car, at the look of sheer exasperation on Hannibal’s face.

 

“You’re exhausting.” He says it fondly, and Will hates the pang it makes in his gut.

 

“Imagine _being_ me.”

 

“I wouldn’t want to tread on your professional toes.” Will smiles at him tiredly, appreciative of the humour instead of the insistence of his wellbeing and _blah blah blah._ “Have you never found any activity to be effective in grounding and calming you? No method of stress relief?” Well Will supposes he had only himself to blame for thinking far too soon on that one.

  
“As I say, mindfulness isn’t your local pathological empath’s go-to wind down. There hasn’t been much in the way of stress relief, outside of boat work, and…” He trailed off, realising he hadn’t meant to continue his sentence. Or he had, but he had forgotten he was in the middle of a conversation with another actual person, his respectable, stable, complete-package psychiatrist no less, rather than with himself or one of the dogs.

 

“And…?” Of course.

 

“Nothing, just fixing up motors and stuff, but even if I could drag my outboard with me everywhere I go, it isn’t exactly grounding, it doesn’t relieve my anxiety in the same-in an effective way.” Will cut himself off, mentally kicking himself for once again being too stupid to hold his own tongue. Seriously, was that _another_ mental block he could add to the list?

 

“Are we going to pretend you’re not holding something back?” Hannibal asks softly, not patronising, no judgement, but not simply inquisiting, either. Will blows out a breath that he wished he had realised he had holding and continued to do so.

 

“I’m not-it’s nothing.”

 

“Will, it is both my professional and personal duty to help you, and I can’t do that unless you’re honest with me.” He sterns Will as if he is a misbehaving child, not crossly or angrily, but commanding, and it never fails to make Will feel exactly like a naughty kid being scolded. Hannibal would make a good dad. The thought comes into his brain unbidden, and he desperately wished it hadn’t.

 

“Professional _and_ personal, huh?” He asks, hoping a slight curveball might catch the man off-track, knowing it won’t.

  
“Of course, Will. You are not only an unofficial patient, you are a dear friend. It is the duty of friends to help each other, where possible.” Why is Will’s mouth dry? And while he’s at it, why, exactly, had the universe failed to do the _one_ thing he asks and open out from under him and swallow him into the floor?

 

“I-thanks.” What an utterly idiotic response. Will hates himself.

“Thank me by being honest with me.” He feels himself flushing, willing his head to stop broadcasting Hannibal calling him a ‘dear friend’.

 

“I don’t-it’s…” he sighs silently and checks to see Hannibal glance at him for a sole moment before redirecting his attention back on the road. “Sex.” Will blurts out, and if he could dissociate enough to get some perspective right now he’d laugh at how absurdly embarrassing he is.

 

“You find sex grounding-that isn’t anything to feel embarrassed over.” Hannibal is the height of professionalism. Will wants to kill them both.

 

“I mean it’s not something I’ll be getting printed on a T-shirt, but it’s not exactly like it matters.”

“Of course it matters, Will, if you find it to be a helpful coping mechanism then you should engage in it to your advantage, so long as you are being safe of course.” Will cringed evidently at that, and Hannibal smiles at his response kindly.

 

“Please don’t give me the birds and the bees talk, I think I’m a couple decades late for that one. It doesn’t matter; who am I going to sleep with, Doctor? I can’t maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds, I work potentially the most irregular hours in the world, and I can’t keep up a conversation outside of one involving brutal homicide for more than five minutes. Believe it or not, that doesn’t exactly scream ‘desirable boyfriend’, or even ‘one-night-stand-that-you-will-walk-out-of-alive’.” Will was ashamed by how breathless he was finishing his sentences, realising he talks far too fast when he’s flustered or he’s more out of shape than he thought. Probably both.

 

“Is sex as a form of release solely about a physical connection, or is it something more?” Will looks at Hannibal, stoic and staring straight ahead at the road.

 

“Why are you asking questions you know the answer to? Or is the therapist in you so deeply ingrained you can’t extract him from your everyday conversations?” Will wondered if he was being too assuming to think of this as an everyday conversation as opposed to a therapist-patient discussion. His fatigue made it so that he didn’t particularly care.

 

“I can guess I am on the right lines, but I can’t be sure-”

  
“But you are,” Will presses, unable to stop himself, his eyes closed and accidentally letting his tiredness seep into his voice. “You are sure, even if you shouldn’t be. You know what it is for me.” Hannibal glances his eyes without moving his head, and Will imagines how uncomfortable he would be in his position, being stared at and without even the option of really looking back.

 

“I know it is about more than the physical aspect of pleasure, but I can’t know exactly where the catharsis comes from.” Will stays quiet, opting to turn his gaze at the passing country roads and meadows.

 

“If I had to make a wager, I would say it’s about the emotional connection, the ability to use your empathy for something pleasurable, instead of sinister carnage, for a change,” Hannibal said when it became clear he was not to expect an answer. Will gruffs out an acknowledgement, both men glancing at each other from their peripheral vision. Hannibal isn’t wrong, Will decides, but he’s on the right track rather than at the right stop.

 

“Or perhaps, it’s about power. Perhaps you enjoy overpowering your partners, consensually, of course, and exerting control that you don’t otherwise exercise your life. Acquiescing your inability to govern your day to day life, but relishing the opportunity to inflict that loss of authority on someone else; is that it?” Will chokes when he swallows, audibly, Adam’s apple working enthusiastically. He pointedly does _not_ allow his head to run through the idea that he’s at the right stop on the wrong side of the livewire, since the Doctor seems to be able to read his damned _thoughts_. After he had stopped spluttering and was confident his head was turned far enough to the window to hide his furious blush, he steels himself to strengthen his tone.

 

“Yeah…something like that.”

 

“In which case, you won’t establish the respite you so crave by picking up strangers in a bar. In spite of your self-destructive tendencies, however, I don’t see that being one particular vice you’d choose to engage in.” Will is struck by the image of Hannibal in a bar, one he himself would choose to frequent, and he seems so out of place that it almost looks like a comedy skit. And yet; _and yet_ , for some odd reason, it makes his chest feel tight, and he thinks that perhaps it isn’t an entirely impossible scenario.

 

“Is that your professional diagnosis? Self-harming but not a slut?” Will is teasing, he intends to be, but he hears the bite to his voice. He hated that word, always had, and he didn’t know why he was using it now. Perhaps this is the self-destructiveness Lecter is referring to. Will feels Hannibal staving off the urge to roll his eyes and he smiles.

 

“The boundaries between my personal and professional feelings and judgements surrounding you have been fading for quite some time.” When Will looks over at Hannibal, he finds he is meeting his gaze, and doesn’t think he holds it for more than two seconds before he has to look at the road. He is struck by the casualness with which the Doctor speaks, as if they are discussing the weather, and not Will’s sexual preferences followed by the way the older man _feels for_ him.

 

“Are you falling ill to Alana’s professional curiosity?” He asks, not meaning to spit the words or lacing bitterness through them consciously. Dr. Lecter, from Will’s peripheral vision, looks as if he might be watching a tennis match in slow motion. Head turned to the road, to Will, to the road again.

 

“Far from it. In fact, quite the opposite, since I find more and more that my curiosity turns personal.” Will stared at him, managing to close his mouth sharply yet still gaping openly at him with his eyes. “We’re not talking about me, however, and what I am saying, Will, is that you need a connection with someone, to actually gain something from your sleeping with them-you need to find someone you feel comfortable and safe with, to allow you the liberation you need from sex to ground you and help you overcome the crippling and debilitating extent of your anxiety.”

 

Will swallows his discomfort at the impossible and absurdness of the conversation he finds himself in. “Which brings us back to square one: I don’t connect well with people.”

 

“You have friends, Will, close ones, if you can connect with them then surely you can do the same with a sexual partner.” Will thinks, that if he heard him say it every day for the rest of his life, he’d never get used to hearing his psychiatrist saying any variation of the word ‘sex’.

 

“You overestimate both the quantity and extent of my friendships.” He grumbles, willing this conversation could end. He hadn’t had the thought of sex particularly at the forefront of his mind when it had begun, but now he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to eradicate the idea, specifically his conversational partner, and the idea of him partaking in such activities.

 

Will needed to crash this train of thought before it managed to bleed into the other’s head.

 

“I am your friend-we share a close friendship. Why can’t you extend that to others?”

 

“You’re not exactly like ‘others’, Doctor Lecter.” They look at each other at that, and the younger can’t make himself look away, as strong as the urge is to do so.

 

“Be that as it may, despite your instability, you are remarkable, and have much to offer any relationship you’d choose to entertain. With your sensitivity, intelligence, and physical appearance, not to mention incorrigible kindness that extends to every helpless stray you can get your hands on, I struggle to believe you are limited for choices of partner, be it only a physical relations, or something more.” Will notices the gender neutral referencing, and for some completely irrational reason he finds himself somewhat offended by it. It’s unfair that Lecter sounds so relaxed while all of Will’s blood is trying to burst through his skin in the form of a livid blush extending throughout his body.

 

“My instability isn’t a minor character flaw-half the time I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating, if I’m awake or not.” Hannibal looks at him meaningfully, almost reproachingly.  

 

“Are you awake in this very moment?”

 

“I think I would certainly have some self-evaluation to do if this was what my subconscious has reverted to conjuring up for dream material.” They share small, private smiles at that, and there is a warmth flooding the car and their senses that is nothing to do with the afternoon heat or the air-conditioning.

 

“Discussing your sexuality with me is more nightmarish than dreams of wendigos and murderers?” His smile is evident in his voice, and Will has the pathetic urge to bury himself in Hannibal, to nuzzle at him like a cat and be held and made whole, followed by the much stronger desire to punch himself in the face until unconsciousness finds him.

 

“Certainly more spine-chilling.” Will wonders if he could be any more stupid.

 

“For terror or excitement?” The psychiatrist wears a knowing smirk, and Will is suddenly suffocating in oxygen, too much air to breathe in and not enough to breathe out.

 

“Are you…flirting with me?” and he can’t believe the words are coming out of his mouth, but saying them is only marginally less ludicrous than the idea that they might actually be true.

“I’m simply trying to help us both understand your feelings better.”

 

“By _flirting_ with me?” Will tries to sound outraged, because he was(n’t), but it comes out with the quality of a child finding out that Santa had left presents under the tree for the first time, which was certainly _not_ how he felt. (Liar).

 

“Do you _want_ me to flirt with you, Will?” That damn smirk was so clear in his voice, and Will was certain he was being laughed at and it made him want to scream.

 

“Are _you_ capable of giving a straightforward answer for once in your life?”

 

“How would it make you feel, if I said I was being as straightforward as I believe you actually want me to be?” Hannibal is teasing him, and suddenly a dam of frustration he hadn’t known had been blocked and building, blows, entirely, and he feels it snap in himself, swarming his body in buzzing irritation which feels like unforgiving, white-hot indignation in the moment.

 

“Pull over.” He grits out between his teeth. Hannibal did look at him at that, humour wiped, traceless from his features.

 

“Will, I-”

 

“ _Pull. Over.”_ Hannibal looks at him with as much worry as his cool and collected demeanour would allow, a brow raised, some disbelief, wearied exasperation in his eyes, but he obliges. They pull into the parking lot of a conveniently placed and deserted mattress store. As Hannibal turns off the car, Will speaks,

 

“Has anyone ever told you, Doctor Lecter, that you’re actually kind of an asshole?” His tone is carefully neutral, not light teasing, but not biting either, as not to give his intentions away while Hannibal turns to look at him. He will look back and wonder, exactly, what it was that compelled him to make the monumentally stupid decision to jeopardise practically his only stable relationship in his life for the sake of (what promised to be really, _really_ good _)_ sex.

 

Doctor Lecter may be onto something with the whole self-destructive tendencies thing.

 

He yanks Hannibal in by his tie, sure it’ll piss the good doctor off to ruin his suit’s perfect press as he crashes his mouth to the other’s. The kiss is unforgiving and intense, Will opening his mouth the second it collides with the older man’s and licking at his bottom lip, Hannibal’s mouth opening as a sound of surprise (that Will pointedly does  _not_  think of as cute) is let out of it. Will sucks on his bottom lip carefully, and he feels Hannibal reluctantly close his lip over the top of Will’s, gently, gentlemanly, because what else could he expect, and he has the raw, bestial urge to bite him. 

And, oh, he can, right now. 

 

He restrains himself from ripping into flesh like he has the sick fantasy of doing, and instead simply scrapes the meaty tissue in his mouth with his teeth before pinching down ever so gently, and his psychiatrist actually  _moans_  into his mouth, and Will is going to  _die._ He licks at his bottom lip and doesn’t wait for the other to further open his mouth before plunging his tongue in and licking every inch of the hot wet orifice he can reach, incapable of staying still for a second. He doesn’t realise how hard he’s been clenching his fists into the Doctor’s jacket until he pulls away and Will finds his iron grip unrelenting, refusing to let him further than a foot apart from himself.

 

“Will, this is inappropriate,” he sounds satisfyingly breathless, and it renders Will too turned on to allow himself to get suitably angry.

 

“I’m quite sure it’s not the most unorthodox thing you’ve ever done with a patient, so don’t give me your shit.”

 

“Are you accusing me of conducting immoral behaviour with my clients?”

 

“I’m accusing you of being a coward.” He spits it and pulls Hannibal closer, until they’re breathing the same breath, hot on each other’s lips and breaking into the cold electricity sparking around them, but still not touching. “If you want this, then take it, and stop hiding behind your manners and professionalism.”

 

“I am not-you are not stable enough to give your full consent, Will.” If Will wasn’t so angry by his being chided, he would have relished in Hannibal’s muddled sentencing. He scoffs instead and shoves himself away, not actually pushing Lecter but letting go of his lapels with ill-concealed aggravation. The hand that closed around his wrist was comfortingly warm and dry, and it made him even angrier, given his own hands were clammier than they had been when he was a fumbling teenager giving college presentations. He didn’t want to be comforted by Hannibal’s soothing voice and his stupidly soft hands, and he’s tingling with his own self-loathing when he feels himself melt in the others’ grasp as he’s pulled to the other man and that mouth is on his own again.

 

Hannibal isn’t as demanding in his kiss, moving his mouth sweetly and respectfully, no tongue because he’s much too civilised for such debauchery, Will thinks resentfully. He wrenches away and the loss of closeness is agonising.

 

“I don't want your pity, Doctor Lecter, so please, just-just stop making fun of me.”

 

He had the nerve to actually blow his pupils and look somewhat taken aback before exasperation settled through his features. "For such an intelligent man, Will Graham, you are infuriatingly stupid." Will has the urge to smile, but he doesn’t, the oxygen in the car too thick and the sun suddenly roasting and blinding.

 

“Stupid and incapable, huh? You really know how to charm a guy.”

 

“Will, you know yourself you are in a vulnerable mental state, it is irresponsible and unfair of me to take advantage of such.” For some reason, Will doesn’t think he actually believes what he’s saying, or at least doesn’t believe it to be a valid protest, and some part of his rational mind vaguely recognises he should be pulling this thread to its completion, there’s some very, very important reason that he shouldn’t ignore Dr Lecter’s remote manipulation.

 

Instead, though, he hums and lolls his head back into the seat, baring his throat and flicking his eyes to the older man like the whore he loves pretending to be. “I suppose I am in a vulnerable mental state, _Doctor,_ would you like to know what would make me feel better?” he can hear how wanton he is, but he’s so caught up in the moment that he can’t find it in himself to care, not even a little.

 

Hannibal looks at him disbelievingly, like Will must be joking, but there is a glimmer of something that might be amusement but just ever so slightly _darker-_

 

Will never claimed to be graceful or elegant, not like his counterpart, but he is especially clumsy as he swings his leg over the gearshift and Hannibal’s thighs, straddling him and the Bentley handbrake in his wide kneeling position. Somehow, when he pulls their chests together and grips at Hannibal’s neck, he doesn’t think he’s managed to ruin the mood yet.

 

“No guesses? Hmm. Well, you were right, you know. It is about power. But I don’t want to exercise it over you. I want you to _take_ it from me.” He’s gritting his teeth and wriggling into Hannibal’s lap entirely, inadvertently grinding into him and biting his lip to stifle more embarrassment. Hannibal kisses him languidly, licking into his mouth and sucking on tongue like a delicacy and Will feels like he’s being worshipped, and all he can do is sit and writhe and _take it_. He lets his lips move against the doctor’s and his hips roll slowly, torturously as he threads his fingers through lightening hair, more desperate than he’s willing to admit.

 

They’re both panting when they break away, sharing the same air and looking at each other in the eyes in a moment that feels too privately intimate to be anything Will should be a part of. Hannibal slides his arms around his waist and his hips and it paints the picture of a key clicking a lock open in his mind’s eye when they settle into place, and when did Will’s cock swell into aching hardness?

 

“Relinquish control willingly, in a choice that you don’t get to make in many other aspects of your life.”

 

“I think you mean _any_ aspects, but you should let me know now if you’re gonna psychoanalyse me for the duration, so I can get off you now and save us both some time.” Hannibal smiles and ducks his head into his neck to suck kisses and bruises down him, biting at the curve of his throat. Will wants to shy away from the contact, wet and hot and damp in a way that shouldn’t drive him to riding his therapist’s lap with abandon, and it tickles but more than that it feels so _good._

 

“Are you sure you truly find it to be such an anaphrodisiac? I think, perhaps you like it, being under my scrutiny, my judgement. My control.” His accent is thicker in his (impressive, from what Will can feel at his pelvis) arousal, and Will is _so_ thankful he doesn’t share that particular mannerism, his southern accent the tip of the iceberg of contrition he feels for himself.

 

“Hannibal, shut up and fuck me, don’t make me beg.” Hannibal was still buried in his neck, but he seemed to make some sort of decision as he inhaled deeply, held it, and finally exhaled.

 

“I suppose the begging can wait.” Will almost keens the loss of the doctor’s thigh against his cock to grind on when he feels himself forcibly lifted out of Hannibal’s lap, strong hands practically folding him and lifting him by his underarms and the backs of his knees and he’s thankful the older man doesn’t relent his grip on him as he pulls himself out of the car and picks Will up again, bridal style, as he’s not completely convinced he’s currently capable of standing. Will suddenly sees the comical absurdity in the situation and his face breaks out in a smile before one car door is closed while another is opened, and he feels like he’s flying through the air as he’s chucked into the backseat, narrowly missing his head on the door.

 

Hannibal looks positively predatory as he slithers in and closes the door behind him firmly, hovering above him, his eyes dark and hungry. 

 

“Do you like this? Make a habit of engaging in coitus in public, where anyone who elects to walk past could see you?” Will isn’t particularly partial to dirty talk, but the fact that those words, still professional and almost even clinical, in _this_ moment, are coming from that mouth has blood shooting to his cock.

 

“Jesus, I-yes, I like it.” Will is unable to meet his eyes.

 

“That is what I thought…there is one slight problem with your plan.” Hannibal drawls, but doesn’t slow in his sucking assault on Will’s neck or his undoing of Will’s shirt buttons.

 

“And,” Will interrupts himself with a sharp inhale as Hannibal bites his collar bone and splays a warm hand across his breast bone, making him shiver as his nipple is warmed. “what would that be?” this is so surreal, Will notes for the first time, he feels like he is on cloud nine, he’s pretty sure that nothing he can possibly say would bring him down from his high.

 

“You don’t know where I’ve been.” The words are whispered hot and damp in his ear and Will thinks he might burst out of his own skin with arousal, despite their content.

 

“Is that a refined way of saying you’re worried about where I’ve been?”

 

“I am more worried about your capacity for recklessness than the low probability of you being diseased when it comes to my little knowledge of your sexual history.” It was remarkable how easily Hannibal flipped from filthy teasing into expertised concern. Will whipped out his wallet from an inside pocket of his jacket, just barely clinging on to his shoulders, and he feels his face grow hotter and redder by the second under the Doctor’s gaze as he whips out a condom and pushes it into his hand, turning his head to the side, furiously blushing and angry at himself for how mortifyingly desperate he looks (and is).

 

“Does this make me more or less of a slut? You know, in your professional opinion.”

 

“Your insistence in using that word when it so clearly distresses you makes me even more concerned for your tendency to cause yourself unnecessary pain.” And just when Will thinks he couldn’t be more embarrassed.

 

“It doesn’t…distress me, I- _oh,_ ” Hannibal latches one mouth on a nipple and rolls the other one between long, delicate fingers, and how did Will _possibly_ ever miss how sensitive they were? Hannibal’s teeth are scraping at his chest after he frees the nipple from its suction with a wet pop, and Will is irritated by how comforting the older man’s weight blanketing him is.

 

“Do you consider yourself a ‘slut’, as you so eloquently put it?” Hannibal asks when he manages to drag his tongue away from Will’s torso while his hands roam his stomach, and why are they so _soft_?

 

“Right now? Yeah, maybe, because you’ve got on far too many clothes,” He drags Hannibal up to meet his lips by his coat, not missing the wince at its crumpling, and wraps his legs low around the wider man’s hips and undoes his waistcoat buttons with apt efficiency, moving onto his shirt with the same deftness. “and I’m far, _far_ too coherent for my liking.” He smooths a hand over Hannibal’s flank, round his stomach and back, smiling at the roughness of the greying hair across his chest. He isn’t entirely sure that what’s happening right now is real, but dear God he couldn’t care less if it isn’t, as long as it doesn’t stop.

 

He kisses Hannibal again, and again, short, teasing pecks with bare hints of tongue and teeth as he pulls the older man closer, forcing him to rest more of his weight on Will as one hand travels south of the small of his back to cup at his toned buttocks. Will grinds his hips upward to meet the man’s own, his rock hard cock grinding into the proof of the older man’s growing arousal.

 

“I want you inside of me, Doctor Lecter.” He whispers in his ear, not making the conscious decision to actually say the words, but for once thankful for the disconnect between his brain and body when he feels Hannibal shudder against him, his throat working in something between a purr and a growl that makes Will’s knees feel weak where they are bent to accommodate the man in the crowded backseat.

 

“We don’t have any lubricant.” He nips along Will’s lobe as he whispers the words, characteristically confident and self-assured as Will expected him to be in this kind of scenario, not that he _had_ expected nor imagined such a thing before. He hadn’t imagined nor expected how deeply in denial he was of his feelings and fantasies either.

  
“Believe it or not, it’s not my first time. Need’s must.” He begins on the good Doctor’s slacks and finds his neck straining as he tilts up to meet Hannibal’s lips again, even as he moves out of reach to give him a stern look.

 

“I will not hurt you, Will.”

 

“This won’t hurt me- _you_ won’t hurt me. if anything, this will help me.” He protests, whining like he has nothing to lose. He doesn’t feel like he does at this point, his body and mind entirely in free-fall. He wonders when he realised the voracity with which he wanted this; wanted Hannibal. He tilts his head up to bare his neck again, levelling his gaze but pleading with his eyes. Hannibal relents and smiles like the apex predator he is.

 

“If this is about your need to be overpowered,” Hannibal smiles into the clavicle he’s breathing hotly into, grinding himself into Will’s clothed cock that was steadily leaking precum as the idea of Hannibal fucking him visualises, a shared image in their minds, forming and materialising into twisting and thrusting. “Then maybe you should be grateful for whatever I choose to give you.” Will keens at the words.

 

“I could leave you here, I’m sure you’re aware? Abandon you, dangling on the edge, desperate for release when I haven’t even touched you.”

 

 _For fuck’s sake_ , he groans internally, “Hannibal, please.” He smiles, the sound of his therapist’s name in his voice like a third presence in the car so aromatic of arousal. Hannibal sinks down so that his weight is on his knees and he’s between Will’s parted legs, spreading them wider and up over his shoulders and Will is as turned on by the familiar feeling of being manhandled as he is worried about the stretch in his muscles at the position, because when _had_ he last been to the gym? He’s barely aware of the other man undoing his zipper and button and then there is cool air hitting his hips and his cock is springing free of the underwear he apparently forgot to put on this morning.

 

Hot breath ghosts the head of his cock and he is arching his back, feeling like he’s shaking apart and Hannibal is right, he didn’t even need to touch him to make him like this, and he wonders how he got here, how the Doctor managed to get him into this state. He is violently ripped from his thoughts when a thumb runs over his slit where precum has beaded, and the touch feels downright electric to his oversensitive body before it presses down his cock and past his balls, over his perineum and he is stroking his hole in the most _delightful_ way before-

 

“ _Oh-_ that’s, _God_ ,” Hannibal’s tongue is wicked as it slithers slowly into him, and the last coherent thought he has is to thank any deity listening that he took an extra long shower that morning. Hannibal’s thumb is pushing into him slowly, pre-ejaculate and remnants of saliva easing the slide ever so slightly as Hannibal pulls his tongue away for a horrible moment.

 

“Not God-me.” His tongue returns to lavishing between Will’s cheeks, pushing spit into him and around his rim in a way that’s entirely filthy and something out of Will’s dirtiest most pornographic fantasies, as infrequent as they’re becoming these days. He pushes his index finger into Will slowly alongside his tongue, never relenting in his quest to slick Will with as much saliva as he can physically produce. When his finger is fully inside of Will, he lifts his eyes to meet the man’s he is inside of, and Will feels it like a magnetic pull, the current pulsing in the air between them until he looks back. The instant he does so, Hannibal curls his finger expertly, stroking his prostate head-on and Will’s blows out a breath that he didn’t realise he’d been holding before his lungs start trying to catch up and he’s panting, his heart pounding in his chest he’s sure he hears it as well as feels it.

 

“Yes, fuck, yes _you, Hannibal,_ ” Hannibal flicks his tongue and spits as he carefully adds another finger, and Will feels a suction at his hole and he wonders if he’s ever felt this much pleasure, this beautiful _warmth_ coursing through his veins like liquid. The thought of the man above him, fingering and licking him open in the car like he couldn’t wait to find a bed, like he’s desperate for it, wants Will as desperately as Will wants him makes him flush darker and makes his stomach clench and roll. He can feel Hannibal smiling at him as he whines over the onslaught of the stimulation on his prostate, a third, spit-slicked finger being wetly pushed into him while Hannibal removes his lips from Will’s swollen rim and sinks down onto his cock, swallowing him down in one fell swoop of _hot, wet._

He cries out and breaks himself off by arching his back, his hips jerking so violently he accidentally chokes the good doctor by shoving his cock down his throat. The calloused hands shoving his stomach down into the sweat-sticky leather seats exert such strength Will genuinely thinks he might spontaneously combust. When he feels the suction of that mouth and hollowed cheeks around his member at the same time as fingers scissor and stretch him apart, the burn weak but present and familiar, Will curls one hand into his own mop of sweat-dampened curls and one into Hannibal’s, his moans steadily reaching higher pitches. It takes his psychiatrists’ fingers curling around his prostate and the feeling of his cock-head touching the back of his throat for Will to inadvertently clench his thighs around Hannibal’s head before he feels himself rip a few strands out of his perfect haircut.

 

“Hannn-shit, c-can’t, Hannibal ‘m gonna come, stop, _stop.”_ Hannibal pulls off of his cock with an obscene popping noise that dragged a shameful noise out of him. Will felt the brush of a forearm by his side as Hannibal hovered himself over him, looking satisfyingly dishevelled with his reddened lips and ruined hair.

 

“You look so beautiful when I render you aphonic.” He says, as he stares sickeningly longingly at his charge’s face. Will breathes out a sigh of humour, his smile spreading involuntarily as he winds his arms around the other’s shoulders.

 

“Can you stop being so romantic for ten minutes and fuck me until I- _ah,”_ He glares at the other as the fingers in his ass curl exquisitely.

 

“Until you’re incapable of making these smart-ass remarks you’ve become so accustomed to?” How had he missed how sexy that accent was before this? He’d be popping a semi as soon as he was invited in to the office the next time he was in therapy.

 

 _Shit,_ Will thinks, _therapy_. That might be a slight issue, but when Hannibal twists his hand again and kisses Will until he is breathless and his tongue aches, he resolves that it’s definitely tomorrow Will’s issue.

 

“Mmf, did you learn that in medical school?” Hannibal looks down at him, unimpressed, before latching back on to his neck and biting promptly and brutally into skin that the rise of his highest shirt collar won’t cover, and it’s that thought more than the sharp pain of the incision that makes him moan.

 

“My students will have a field day with that one.” He’s regaining his coherency (along with his impatience), as the pain in the intrusion of Hannibal’s fingers begins to ease.

 

“I would have thought you’d be more worried about what Jack will have to say.” Hannibal’s tone is so low it reverberates off of Will’s throat, and he has to fight the urge to shy away from the tickling sensation. Will runs his hands over Hannibal’s chest hair and simultaneously tugs and pushes at it’s coarseness, straightening the broader man’s form and pulling him closer, so he’s lining up with Will, the two only separated by the arm stretching from it’s socket to between Will’s legs.

 

“Please,” Will breaks himself off with a kiss. “Don’t ever bring Jack up when you have your fingers inside me again. Or anything else, for that matter.” He feels Hannibal smile, and decides he’s entirely too prepared and far too eager to draw this out any longer. The fact that Hannibal Lecter is going to fuck him is only going to continue to blow his mind for so long (he hopes), and he’d like to have his mind blown by the event rather than the idea of it.

 

He pushes himself to sit up and Hannibal takes the hint, gently removing his fingers from Will, locating and retrieving the discarded condom packet from where he’d left it when he was too entrenched in his task for forethought. When he goes to rip the foil, Will stills his wrist with his own hand.

 

“Let me.” Will brings the hand holding the condom to his mouth and places it between his teeth, using Hannibal’s hand as an instrument to rip the packet in half, never breaking eye contact with him. He swears he could hear a growl bubbling in the doctor’s throat as he awkwardly manoeuvres the condom out of the packet and into his mouth. It’s slippery in his mouth and tasted faintly of artificial cola that was so vile it made him question all of his life choices. He’s never personally seen how this could be viewed as such a sexual act, but all the partners he’d done it to in the past had enjoyed it, and from the way Hannibal was looking at him, like a starved man might ogle a juicy sirloin steak, he’d say he’s enjoying it too.

 

He may have been wrong, he thinks, as Hannibal shoves him back and pulls the rubber from between his teeth, and this time Will isn’t as lucky to entirely avoid bumping his head against the door handle. Hannibal towers over him darkly, and Will is incapable of breaking the eye contact, like watching a natural disaster happen before his eyes.

 

“Did I give you permission?” He snarls, eyes boring into Will’s with such intensity Will feels like his head might implode. He shuts his eyes and turns his head, unable to facilitate the rush of lust that courses through him at the words, the way they are said, the _sheer idea_ of them, being said to him, by _Hannibal_ , only to have a hand grip his jaw and turn it toward him. “Look at me when I talk to you.” Will is mortified by the way he snaps his eyes open, only for them to roll back into his head as he keens.

 

“Please, Doctor,” Will wonders when he became the whore he had been playing. “Please let me put it on you. I want…I want to feel you inside my mouth, I want to pleasure you.” Hannibal makes a humming noise in the back and puts the condom back into his mouth, “You may.” As if he’s offering Will mercy, and considering Will would say just about anything Hannibal could ask when he’s this hard, he suppose he is.

 

Hannibal moves up his body, annoyingly graceful as he knee-walks up Will’s torso until his weight is braced on his knees and Will’s ribs, limiting his ability to breathe in a way that he’s not quite ready to admit that he likes. Will shoves himself on to his elbows and pulls Hannibal’s slacks and underwear down enough for his erection to bob free of them, and Will’s pretty sure his heart stops for a second and his mind blanks out entirely as he realises that this is, without a doubt, the longest, thickest thing that he’ll have ever had inside of him.

 

He looks up into the eyes of his expectant psychiatrist, and can’t stop the image that materialises in his own head of himself-gazing up, desperate and debauched, with wide eyes that are lust-clouded full of fear and he’s pretty sure he can physically feel his dopamine levels spike as his arousal does the same.

 

It’s awkward at first, and Will has to use his hands to help him roll the condom onto the fat head of Hannibal’s dick, but once the initial difficulty has passed, he manages to sheathe the cock inside of the condom, using the barest hint of teeth that make the other man hiss in both warning and enjoyment, if the look he gives him is anything to go by.

 

Will is impressed at his own ability to suppress his gag reflex long enough to take Hannibal’s prick down his throat just further than the condom could, trying his hardest to ignore the god-awful flavouring. Hannibal’s breathing grows heavy, but there is otherwise no indication of Will blowing him doing much in the way of further turning him on, until he pushes himself too far, too fast and his throat constricts and chokes around the intrusion. Hannibal gasps quietly and his eyes flutter closed momentarily, and Will hums in satisfaction, earning him a look of pure approbation that makes him want to chain himself to Hannibal and give him everything he has to offer.

 

He pulls off of Hannibal with an obscene suck, and puts on his best puppy dog eyes, because he’s committed too far already to let in the impending humiliation now.

 

“Please, Doctor,” he whines, not daring to break eye contact even though the intensity feels like it’s searing his organs from the inside out. “Please, give me what I need.” He begs, looking through his lashes like a cheap hooker. When the image of himself through Hannibal’s eyes pushes into his head again, the word _angel_ comes to him unbidden.

 

Hannibal slides down again, pushing Will’s legs apart and settling in between them, stroking his sides and up his inner thighs. Will can feel his cock pressed against his crevice. “And what, exactly, do you need, dear Will? Ask nicely.” He warns, tone severe enough to make Will’s skin prickle.

 

“I need you to hold me down and _take_ me, Doctor Lecter,” Hannibal is slightly jolted, though not unpleasantly, by the use of his title. “ _Please.”_ He’s whining petulantly, too far gone and desperate to remember himself.

 

“Hmm, and do you deserve it? Have you behaved?” Will is going to _scream._

“Jesus, yes, yes I deserve it, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you, do whatever you want, but Hannibal please just-FUCK!” With one smooth, impossibly quick motion, Hannibal lined himself up and pushed into Will, and suddenly he can’t see, and is he about to pass out?

 

He hears the quiet murmuring of nonsense vowels before he recognises that they’re coming from himself, noting so when the six inches inside him slowly turn into something more like seven, and they reach a distinctly higher (some might say squeaking, even) pitch, and good god surely there isn’t **_more._**

****

Hannibal crowds over him and comforts him with a kiss, and it’s far gentler than the rest have been. He feels a thumb wipe at his cheeks and notes the moisture before he recognises it as his own tears. “it’s alright, darling. You can manage.” Hannibal murmurs into his chin as his hands stroke Will just so, and he can feel himself relaxing at the touch, before Hannibal pushes further in and the stretch burns and he feels like he’s being ripped apart at the seams and split in two right down the middle.

 

“You’re so big, i-it hurts,” Will tastes copper in his mouth when he talks, and the realises he’d bitten through the skin at his lips when Hannibal had breached him. It shouldn’t turn him on in the way it does, but nor should the pain in his innermost parts in which psychiatrist’s cock twitching.

 

“I know, darling, just breathe. Look at me, you’re perfectly fine.” Hannibal pushes himself in by the last agonising inch and Will’s nails scrabble for purchase in his neck and shoulders and he’s crying out, and crying, and Hannibal’s forcing himself so deep there’s nowhere for his prick to go inside of him, no angle in which he isn’t ramming straight into Will’s prostate, and his vision is blurring around the edges and it’s so intense his blood feels like it’s boiling, his heart is racing and he can’t _breathe, he’s-_

‘Will, look at me.” It is not a request, it’s not even a demand, rather a command, leaving no room for debate-he has no choice but to obey and his frantic eyes snap to the others’.

 

‘Breathe with me,” he takes Will through breathing, in for eight, hold for four, out for six, Will remembers from the more conventional therapy he’d undergone in a different lifetime, one that didn’t include Hannibal Lecter and daily dead bodies and car sex with his psychiatrist. “You’re doing so well, you are so good for me, my dear boy.” Will can’t help but sag at the praise, unable to control the physiological reaction to it, finally feeling himself calm somewhat. Hannibal’s hand slinks around his cock, which had slightly softened in his momentary panic, although had no issue jerking to attention under the elder’s attention. His strokes are more like caresses, almost gentle in the pressure as Hannibal’s eyes bore into him reverently.

 

“My darling boy,” and he says it with such conviction Will could easily be convinced he wasn’t a man in his mid-thirties. “You are so wonderful for me. Speak up if you need to slow down.” He whispers as he cradles Will’s face.

  
“What are-oh, oh, _fuck,”_ Hannibal withdraws until his cockhead tugs at the inside of his rim before hammering back in, slamming the oxygen from Will’s lungs. Suddenly he can’t speak, he feels like there’s a 300lb weight on his chest, and Hannibal’s thrusts leave him achingly empty and then agonisingly full, and he isn’t sure which is better, which is worse, if it feels good or not, before he recognises that the thrumming in his body that has him wound  tighter than a bowstring is _pleasure;_ true, undeniable and overwhelming blissfulness that has him drooling when he lets it in.

 

Hannibal shifts so he is slamming at that spot inside Will head on until he can feel every nerve ending in his body, all buzzing and glowing with an otherworldly light that Will doesn’t deserve to witness, nevermind have as a part of him. “Han-Hannibal, I’m, it’s, never, _ah!-_ never felt, this good, I’ve-” he feels himself choking on his own words, sobbing in gratification he’s never felt as intensely as he does right now.

 

When Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes he wishes to God he hadn’t. He sees unadulterated adoration, something that penetrates much deeper than his physical pleasure, and Will feels like he has summoned something irremovable by looking into those dark pupils. He stared into the abyss and it indeed stared back. He saw himself within it, himself and Hannibal, as they were, but perfect opposites. Parallels from another time, another space, looking back and smiling. The version of themselves staring back at him seems to coalesce and emerge from the void, forming into the light that was pulling at every part of Will. Their coagulation is breathing and occupying the air around them, and Will is choking in it, their connection personified, his lungs constricting, but somehow the light makes it feel so _wonderful._

 

Will is lost, unaware of where he is or what he’s doing, and unable to make sounds beyond broken syllables which might or might not be the start of Hannibal’s name. Hannibal is kneeling as he pounds into Will, one hand on his cock and one splayed over his stomach, warm and grounding, if not nearly enough to actually stabilise him in the slightest. Will isn’t making conscious decisions when he takes that hand in his own, his other running up the doctor’s arm as if it was the most intriguing thing he’d ever seen. Hannibal entwines their fingers, and Will smiles through bleary eyes before jolted sounds ruin the expression.

 

He brings their conjoined hands to his own neck, and Hannibal looks at him warily. Will moans and pushes down, hard enough to hinder his breathing but not enough to leave bruises. Will vaguely recognises in some far away part of his brain that isn’t high on endorphins that he’s never done this, never had any urge, even a thought to do this before Hannibal. For some reason it feels important to note that, but he feels the thought slipping away, falling off the precipice of a cliff in his mind to which there was no bottom. It was as lost as he was.

 

Hannibal’s pace is brutal and punishing, and Will wonders how he hasn’t come yet, before he registers the hand on his cock is gripping, prohibiting his impending earth-shattering orgasm. He eases their shared grip on his throat enough to talk, enjoying the omnipresent     pressure that might or might not be a threat, as well as his ruined voice.

 

“Hannibal, please, ‘m so-fuck _me, yes,”_ Will wonders if he will ever bring a sentence to its completion again through his sobbing. He realises Hannibal was talking to him only after he has interrupted him, and he feels a particularly harsh thrust against his prostate in turn that has him crying out.

 

“Close,” he chokes out urgently. “oh, oh oh oh so close please let me, I need it, nee-eed,” Hannibal takes pity and mercifully starts to move his hands, and Will is already coming when Hannibal gives him permission, one hand adorning his throat and the other his red, leaking prick.

 

“Come for me, my dear Will.” Some part of his lower stomach feels like it explodes in the most delightful way he could possibly imagine with the force of his orgasm, and he feels as if he is being dashed against cliffside rocks by wave after wave in a storm, but the rocks were made of little pieces of an inconceivable heaven. The satisfaction of his release is unlike anything he has ever felt in his sad little life, like everything has been black and white until he experienced the technicolour of orgasmic bliss that was, in fact, mind-blowing sex with Hannibal Lecter. He feels the man fuck him through it, and he is grateful, full to bursting with gratitude and gratification, even as the last sparks of pleasure burn out and he is left writhing in his oversensitivity, and only then does he feel his own seed, sticky and plentiful on his stomach.

 

He can’t look at Lecter, physically _can’t,_ but when he feels Hannibal slow and begin to pull out of him he grasps at his hip drastically, encouraging him back into Will, and answers his questioning look before he even sees it.

  
“Do it, c-come inside.” He whispers shakily, and he feels Hannibal gather his strength, trying to hold onto his restraint, fighting a war within himself against his primal instinct to hurt Will and to protect him from all upset. He feels the hand lift away from his throat and he lets his own come with it, to simply be interlocked, the older man’s thumb stroking. Hannibal is gentle with his thrusts, which means he takes longer to come, and brings Will to the point of bawling and pleading him to come, oversensitive to the point of true pain by this point, which, thank every Lord every single person, alien, and cat in the entire milky way had ever conceived of, did the trick, and Hannibal buries himself in Will and climaxes with a grunt the other man vows he’ll never forget the sound of. He filthily thinks of how it’d feel if Hannibal was inside him bareback, his come coating his insides and marking him, the thought forcing a groan out of his mouth.   

 

Hannibal kisses Will tentatively, testing the waters and posing a question that Will wasn’t quite sure he was deciphering the whole meaning of. Will kisses back, but is too tired for much more than pliancy, wrapping trembling arms around Hannibal’s neck. He belatedly realises he’s shaking all over, and is startled to note that it’s almost entirely dark outside. Hannibal is steady and careful when he pulls out of Will, who involuntarily whimpers and secretes his tear-soggy face between Hannibal’s neck and shoulder as he feels his used hole quivering at the abrupt loss.        

 

Hannibal moves away, leaning into the front seat and goose-bumps raise all over Will’s skin and he’s suddenly freezing, shattered, starving, and weaker than he can remember feeling since having pneumonia as a kid. He whines pathetically and is in turn shushed by a gentle hand stroking over his stomach and up his chest, avoiding his nipples. Hannibal returns and something cold and moist is wiping at Will’s skin-because _of course_ , _he keeps wetwipes in his fucking Bentley, what else was to be expected-_ and he sinks into the touch, unable to keep his eyes open or muster sufficient embarrassment when he feels his stomach rumble.

 

Hannibal sorts him out as best he can, surgeon-like efficiency in his redressing of Will, who has reverted into a rag-doll like state, his limbs entirely useless for their shaking. He is so utterly exhausted that he doesn’t even start when he’s gently yanked by his legs halfway out the car door, and feels only miniscule mortification when Hannibal lifts him bridal style once again into the passenger seat, to have his hands slapped away when he tries to buckle Will’s seatbelt.

 

“’m not _completely_ invalided…also, don’t ever say anything ‘bout that lift ‘n’ carry thing to anyone. Especially not me.” Hannibal’s laugh is surprising and infectious, and Will levels his lolling head for long enough to grip at Hannibal’s suit like he had hours before, looking at his lips in something akin to astonishment crossed with determination, before pulling them to meet his own. The kiss was chaste and lovely, a thank you, a promise, a confession, and perhaps, best of all, just a kiss.

 

Hannibal tells Will to get some rest, and that he will wake him when they’re home. Will slurs a joke about how untired he is, that he couldn’t possibly sleep, bewildered by the sound of his own voice.

 

“I sound…drunk. I feel drunk.” He says, leaning his head back, ‘just resting his eyes’ he promises.

  
“You are sleep deprived.” Hannibal helpfully points out, sounding excruciatingly refreshed. Will’s retort is a scoff.                       

 

‘Yeah, not to mention I just had the best sex of my life.” He laughs at himself, how humiliating he’s being and he doesn’t find an iota of worry within himself over it. “Maybe I _should_ go to sleep if it’ll shut me up.” He doesn’t mind when Hannibal doesn’t respond, but when he gives his body permission to go to sleep, he finds he can’t. It feels like he’s trying not to worry at a loose tooth that’s taunting him and rubbing up against his tongue, daring him to call its bluff.

 

“There’s something that you’re not telling me.” He blurts, and he hears Hannibal look at him from rustling fabric rather than sees it, too raw after what had just happened to even attempt eye contact. He’s not sure how he knows he’s smiling. “That you’re not telling anyone.” He sighs as he goes on.

 

“I have things I’m not telling people either. But you should know, I’ll find it. I’ll get to the bottom of it eventually, I always do. ‘s a gift and a curse.” He has the strange urge to laugh and applaud, like he’d just witnessed the most entertaining thing of his life.

 

‘Now that, my dear Will, I do not doubt. Rest now, clever boy.” And Will does, falling into a euphoric, dreamless unconsciousness that is too good to be sleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo couple things:
> 
> -I finished and beta'd this in an extremely sleep deprived state at 4am so apologies for any typos, inconsistencies, and general errors  
> -I almost made it a conveniently placed hotel but I thought that might be just a tad too fanfiction-y for this fanfiction, and car sex is on my porn bucket list (which in reading this over I've just realised I have already actually written but ¯\\_(ツ)_/
> 
> -this is going to have a follow up chapter! I am determined. It will be much shorter and potentially won’t have any porn in it, but I wanted to explore the awkward morning-after therapy session dynamic lmao.  
> -hit me up on tumblr @rhackcity I’m bored and lonely 25/8


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